


Certain to miss it

by airafleeza



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind Fusion, Bisexual Bucky Barnes, Bisexual Steve Rogers, Bucky Barnes Needs a Hug, Bucky Barnes Recovering, Emotional Constipation, Hurt/Comfort, Idiots in Love, M/M, Memory Alteration, Memory Loss, Minor Bucky Barnes/Natasha Romanov, Mutual Pining, Not Captain America: Civil War (Movie) Compliant, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Steve Rogers Needs a Hug, Time Travel, but not really, kind of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-20
Updated: 2018-09-20
Packaged: 2019-07-14 09:37:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,115
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16037804
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/airafleeza/pseuds/airafleeza
Summary: There are some fragments that cut off unnaturally, like the shock of blonde hair spotted as he laid on a roof, gravel digging into the leather of his uniform. The sight had given him pause—nerves shaken, leaving the soldier with only had half of a connection, a thought of some sort that was supposed to take place after that. Lethologica. Someone had taken a razor and rooted around in his head, severing tracks for his train of thought. Nothing happened after that. The memories were gone, changed, as he realized vaguely something was different with this wipe.—James stares at his own face in the Smithsonian, unable to remember the forgetting.





	Certain to miss it

**Author's Note:**

> HOLY GOD AND JESUS I started writing this fic when I first joined the Cap fandom in 2014. Two months ago I was inspired to pick it up again. _Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind_ is one of my favorite movies (along with CATWS, of course), and I hope my attempt does it justice! So many other fab writers have written in this AU and just NAILED it. Honestly... I could probably work on this fic and continue to tweak it forever, but I think 4 years is long enough. Time to fly, my fledgling fic!
> 
> Much thanks to Jannet, the platonic love of my life. Thank you for chucking pillows at me and reminding me first drafts suck. I probably wouldn't get out of bed without you. And last but not least, handsome [Ari](http://ignisgayentia.tumblr.com//)! Ari, it's weird to think I started writing this during our WhatsApp days, but I'm so lucky to have met you and I cherish our time together. Thank you for beta-ing for me. <3

In the beginning, there was a train. Getting on, shipping off, falling from. The train would scream on metal, scream and stop. It felt like a lifetime, but even in his dreams, it was still the train that always took him away.

(Or maybe it was in the end there was a train. He isn’t sure anymore.)

 

* * *

 

 It is 2016 and James sneaks out of the house in Philadelphia he shares with Natalia. He suspects that isn’t her name, a suspicion that’s been growing and gnawing at him in the last few weeks.

There was always something unbelievable about the story she gave him in the hospital several months ago. Her red hair, untucked on one side and brushing against his stubble as she leaned over him, face concerned. Near tears, almost. She told him they’d been dating for years. College sweethearts. She told him that “ _James, you hit your head_ ”, and the staff surrounding him corroborated her story.

When they released him, she swore she didn’t care if he never remembered anything from their life before—she promised to take care of him and carried herself through the motions, expecting nothing in return.

And it’s not the late night, hushed phone calls that happen before Natalia goes away for weeks on business that first started to disturb him. Or the fact he doesn’t realize he knows Russian, Mandarin and a handful of other languages until he hears them and discovers he understands. What bothered him was the fact that no one ever visits. Their home looks like a doll house with everything in its place. There are no pictures on the walls, no evidence of a past. He feels like an actor who has stumbled on stage without knowing the scene, not knowing what his lines are to be.

Only over time did they fill the rooms with laughter. Some nights are Natalia with her feet in his lap as he rubbed them as they shared a pint of mint chocolate chip ice cream. Together they could heat soup in the microwave and burn grilled cheese sandwiches. Natalia would ask to feed him, sometimes teasing, sometimes purposely missing which resulted in soup dribbling down his chin. _This_ was real, James knows. This was safe and okay. Natalia is a good person, he can tell. She is just not always honest nor in love with him.

It isn’t enough, and something tells him this isn’t how it was or is supposed to be. Something is missing. What that is, he doesn’t know until he finds the flyer stapled crudely onto a pole near their house where James takes his morning run. It is for an exhibit in the Smithsonian— _come see it before it goes_ , it reads. _Captain America throughout the ages!_

Captain America? It sounds familiar and the man on the flyer looks ridiculous in his patriotic get-up. It isn’t the man’s face he recognizes—it’s too pixelated and small, the costume being the focal point and not the man. But it’s the feeling of fond exasperation that takes him by surprise when he opens the flier and gets a brief overview of the _many feats of America’s greatest soldier_. As he sneaks out of the house (sneak? Why would he need to if it’s his place, too?) and onto the train, he wonders how the flier got in his room and why. He doesn’t know until he steps into the exhibit.

 

* * *

 

It was only a few months after D.C. that Hydra took him.

The station in Washington was packed when Barnes arrived, filled with people in business suits and long jackets. Sleeping outside during a New York winter made his muscles tight. The material he wore was stiff and made stiffer by the cold. He tried to suppress a bone deep shiver. It was impossible, it felt like the cold came from inside him. The more time left to his own devices had made him wonder if he lacked some sort of essential mechanism to generate body heat. It was illogical, of course. A passing thought. He seemed to have more of those the longer he spent away from missions and handlers.

Barnes moved like the people around him, wondering how he appeared to them. It was never in his mission parameters before to blend in as he worked from a distance. No one trusted him off his leash—he realized with a grimace—to go undercover as an agent of Hydra.

Not that he was even that—more a gun than anything else. A weapon to put away when no longer necessary. He shivered then, phantom pains of a quick freeze. The insides of his teeth hurt when he breathed out.

He pushed through. Setting his eyes on the electronic sign reading, “To Brooklyn”, Barnes moved dangerously close to the yellow line near the platform’s edge and waited. Everyone was further back, not visibly eager until the moment the train arrived and opened its doors. Preparing himself for the inevitable shoving, his fists clenched and unclenched.

He approached everything with the single-mindedness he applied to missions. Tasks were easier if he thought he had to do it, though he wouldn’t admit it. Brush his teeth. Eat. Catch a couple hours of sleep. Go to Brooklyn. There was no urgency in the latter, not allowing himself to get dragged along the rush of morning commuters. Sooner or later he’d reach his destination. He’d find Steve Rogers. He’d apologize for the bullets Barnes put in him.

Now that Barnes remembered him, he could do anything he damn well pleased after all this time. He could love Rogers like he’d always wanted and nurse a broken heart if Rogers didn’t want him anymore. Most importantly, Bucky Barnes could _live_.

When it was his stop, it wasn’t hard to find his old neighborhood—like a rat in the maze, looking for cheese. He knew the old corners, the twists and turns. It wasn’t until he saw Rogers in a coffee shop, large and looking out of place, shoulders hunched in a language that read _trying to blend in,_ that Barnes realized Rogers would never let him go. They were after the same thing: two lost dirty street kids drawn to the home they’d found in another person.

 

* * *

 

The truth is he had traded in his vigilance. The prospect of settling down, seeing what that looked like after all these years, made him dumb in ways he hadn’t been since he was just a kid without an inkling of what the world had in store for him. The idea that nothing really mattered anymore—he’d lived the worst of it, he thought, and _god dammit,_ if this was a second chance, Barnes wasn’t going to waste it. He had been through hell, and now a life with Rogers was his respite and everything he’d worked towards. The months on the run, dirty and bloody, afraid to sleep because of the nightmares he knew his mind could supply. Nightmares, memories—both so similar and blurred together that they were practically the same, he couldn’t tell the difference anymore. Nothing could amount to what he’d lost, but still: he wanted Steve Rogers.

It was then he saw the glint of metal, his eyes immediately focused on the apartment rooftop across the street. A place he would choose if his intention was to have Rogers in his crosshairs. Jolted from his thoughts, feeling panic and fear for someone other than himself for the first time in years, Barnes swung around, ready to scale the fucking apartment if he had to when someone touched his arm, asked, “are you alright, buddy?”, and plunged the needle into his neck.

 

* * *

 

It was 2014 and Barnes was strapped to a table, an unfamiliar machine luring over his head. He thought he’d seen it all, been through it all, but he doesn’t recognize this crew of doctors and wondered how deep into Hydra’s organization they were, if any of their names had been released by the Black Widow.

He fought against his restraints until the machine whirred to life, and then his body stilled, his thoughts rapid fire as his heart beat against his ribs, trying to escape. To move. Get out of here. Something. He had done this million times with Hydra before— _sit still and take what they give you_ , had told himself, “it hurts and then it doesn’t anymore”—and they had broken his body and mind. They attached wires and electrodes, placing something resembling a helmet with blinking lights over his head as Barnes watched and allowed it, a passenger again in his own body.

When they turned the machine on, it was like falling asleep. For once, nothing hurt.

 

* * *

 

Dreams, memories—whatever they were, they flashed and cut out suddenly. Thoughts were choppy at best. Random pieces and observations strung themselves together. Nonessential things that were suddenly clear to Barnes as he worked for Hydra—things unimportant to the job, like noticing a certain shade of blue and the pull it had on him. Particular scents. The first time he’d heard an American accent— _Bostonian_ , he gathered—was years after the war. Most likely in the 60’s, signs dictate, if he was going off who he remembered killing only shortly after.

(That mission ended with the asset reacting badly, his handlers having to take him in after. Harsh voices spoke in Russian to the looming authority figures that talk over him like he wasn’t there. The soldier wasn’t, not really. But he understood words like, “unstable”, phrases like, “he wasn’t ready” when they were used. The soldier doesn’t walk on American soil for decades after.)

There are some fragments that cut off unnaturally, like the shock of blonde hair spotted as he laid on a roof, gravel digging into the leather of his uniform. The sight had given him pause—nerves shaken, leaving the soldier with only had half of a connection, a thought of some sort that was supposed to take place after that. _Lethologica_. Someone had taken a razor and rooted around in his head, severing tracks for his train of thought. Nothing happened after that. The memories were gone, changed, as he realized vaguely something was different with this wipe.

 

* * *

 

James stares at his own face in the Smithsonian, unable to remember the forgetting.

 

* * *

 

Putting two and two together is easy. His brain is apparently scrambled, but James isn’t stupid. Steve Rogers fills in all the right spots in his memory, all the little holes and blurred features. He’s the perfect fit, and the Smithsonian only supports his theory.

He learns Captain America’s—Rogers'—history. He was on the Valkyrie. He was friends with one Bucky Barnes. Rogers didn’t die, and his face makes James realize there’s a groove in his memory, like someone’s carved something out, like an old house with furniture marks in the carpet where the space was once occupied. The void brings strong pangs of melancholy in his chest. This is a life he had.

_It’s still mine_ , James tells himself. Now he only has to find out how he fits in again.

 

* * *

 

The wipe was like the film of his life in reverse with Barnes pushed out on stage to play out his own past.

It was 1945 again and Barnes watched Rogers. Dressed ridiculously with a bull’s eye practically on his back. _Figures_ , Barnes thought. _How else is he supposed to start a fight?_

On top of a speeding train, he was aware of the distance. How far the alps really were. Hadn’t the first time—not to this degree, and his thought was, “goddammit, I’m still alive”. The revelation and the distance were startling.

When he looked at Rogers for confirmation, Rogers caught just the tail-end of his gaze and humored him with a brief smile before returning to the script of how things were supposed to go.

This was the last time he saw Steve Rogers for 70 years. The overwhelming desire to grab him, touch him, and make the most of the moment was frantic. He wanted to pull Rogers down and kiss him, witnesses be damned. The rules he made for himself, the tension he had created, the obligations he felt he had, could all be ignored if Barnes wanted to. He had always had this option.

But he didn’t do any of these things before, so he didn’t. Because it’s not right. Because Rogers doesn’t know that Bucky Barnes has never loved another person like he’s loved Steve Rogers. The memory blurred, then focused acutely just in time for Barnes to watch as Rogers' horrified face got smaller and smaller, falling from the train. This time, Barnes knew what was coming and failed to scream.

 

* * *

 

In 1944, Agent Carter opened her mouth. He knew what she was going to say—back then and in the recall of the memory. A shapeless sense of dread filled him, pushing against his stomach and making him feel sick. His body knew what came next. He didn’t have time for this, for her—rarely the two spoke, and even fewer of those times could Barnes recall not having his ego bruised or walking away so angry he could spit. It’d been months since Peggy Carter—not _Agent_ —waltzed into the bar in her little red dress and Barnes saw happen what he always knew was inevitable: he would be left behind and watch Peggy Carter be offered everything he’d ever hoped to have.

“That was foolish, what you did.” Her sharp words echoed in the memory and for days on end once he’d heard them. He tried to escape what she was referring to, hanging onto something at the tip of his tongue.

 

* * *

 

_32557038_. A string of numbers he chanted until they lost all meaning. They were issued to him, they weren’t his name or even who he was anymore, but his mouth formed the words again and again like they were vital in warding something evil away

There was a figure in the distance that he’d never seen before. It leaned over him, spoke to him, gave him back his name and it was Rogers and Rogers’ face—made fuller now by the serum. He hovered over Barnes like Barnes had done to him countless times. He was bigger, wider than before ( _when was the last time he saw Rogers? On the train? In the river? No, that hadn’t happened yet, it couldn’t be_ ). Rogers looked a mixture of horrified and relieved, and God, did Barnes relate.

Rogers was the one chanting now, repeating Barnes' name, a litany that helped him find peace and a rhythm to breathe in and out to. When the straps were removed, Rogers started dragging him away—but stopped after only a few steps when he did something unexpected. Barnes frowned—he didn’t remember Rogers stopping in their trek to safety and swinging Barnes around to face him. The motion was jarring and left Barnes feeling like he was going to get sick as a dog.

“Bucky.” Rogers’ large hands covered his sore arms, squeezing him desperately. “Bucky, you have to wake up.”

 

* * *

 

James hasn’t replied to any of his messages—the majority being from Natalia asking where he is with increasing urgency. He had left the Smithsonian soon after seeing the exhibit, dry-heaving over a toilet in one of the pristine stalls before heading to the closest park to catch his breath and get some air. The train from Union to Penn Station was just under three hours according to the directions on his phone. He could be in New York before sundown, if he wants.

Instead, James watches the people in the park, wondering about their lives. How different or similar they were to his. He feels removed, the sensation of being an imposter having a hold of him. He looks down at his hands—one flesh, one prosthetic. He didn’t lose his arm in a car accident, did he? He’s never been to college, he didn’t major in English, and his house was never his own. He hasn’t earned the life he’s been living for the last few months: it was given to him to replace what he lost.

Children continue to play. There is a brunet man walking with a little girl’s hand in his. She’s crying, her knee bloody, and the older man, presumably her father, scoops her up and carries her. Bucky Barnes has sisters—James has sisters, or at least _had t_ hem. He sighs and closes his eyes, the breeze through the trees ruffling his short hair.

 

* * *

 

In 1943 they say goodbye at the Stark Expo, Barnes plagued with memories of the man on stage with his infuriating and admirable self-assurance. He’ll die less than 50 years from now. A car accident. How that could be, how Barnes could know this, he isn’t clear on. Meeting a man like Howard Stark was something he doubted he’d forget. He’d always admired him.

And then there was Rogers, who was making eyes at the recruitment tent with a familiar look that told Barnes “you’re not talking me out of this” and that Barnes should give up—they’ve had this conversation a dozen times, maybe more, and Rogers wouldn’t hear him out. It’s his last night before shipping out and Barnes wanted to get drunk and have fun, he wanted to dance and look over and see his best friend at the bar. Always a wallflower, but maybe with a little liquid courage, Barnes could pull Rogers onto the floor himself if a girl wouldn’t do it. It was his last night in Brooklyn until the war was over or Barnes came back too injured to be of any use. He wanted to be reckless. He wanted to tell Rogers and if it went badly, blame it on nerves or the booze.

Instead, Barnes turned around, determined to find the two pretty girls he came with because otherwise he would have to watch Rogers get further and further out of his sight. But then Rogers was where he shouldn’t be— _right in front of him_ —accusations clambering out of him.

“You always did that. You’re always running away and I don’t understand _why_.” Rogers squared his jaw, fists clenched to his sides. He was aiming to hit Barnes if Barnes didn’t say the right thing to placate him, this Barnes knew, but it was hard to think of a damn thing to say when on the receiving end of one of Rogers’ determined looks. Close enough to see light freckles and his long eyelashes, so long they came in contact with the veil of hair Rogers was always trying to push off his forehead and out of his eyes.

This was how he first fell in love with Rogers, all those years ago, and as if Rogers read his mind, he commented.

“Years, Buck. You’ve been doing this for years and you don’t need to. God, it pisses me off.”

Barnes’ eyes stopped tracing Rogers’ face for a second and he pulled himself together. He focused not on the sharp slope of Rogers’ cheek or his thick bottom lip, but instead played the conversation back in his head.

“What…” he stammered. “What are you talking about?”

“This, Bucky!” Rogers was furious, throwing his arms out to his sides, gesturing vaguely to the two of them. “Avoiding me! Pretending you don’t see it! God, it’s worse coming from you. Every time I tried to bring it up, you’d act like I’m invisible.”

Confused, Barnes tried to think of an instance where he’d done this. All his life he’d thought of Rogers as his center, his focal point. At the Expo, on dates. Everything seemed to blur around him, leading him back to Rogers in the end. Before the war, the draft, before everything else, his plan was always on Rogers until Rogers’ own plans wouldn’t allow it.

The genuine bewilderment on Barnes’ face must not be lost on Rogers, who sighed and reeled himself back.

“It wasn’t like an everyday thing,” Rogers struggled, turning red and rubbing his face harshly. “Just when it mattered.” His eyes closed as the realization of what his words meant crept up Barnes’ spine. Barnes stepped back, dazed.

“You can’t—” he stumbled over the words, eyes wide. He blinked and then was alone in a crowd of people, face hot as he turned around and tried to find Rogers. The Expo was quieter, the volume turned down so low he can hear his own blood pulsing in his head. His body ached and it wasn’t 1943. It’s almost two years later and he was laying down in the medical tent. The stitches in his cheek and forehead make it difficult to form any sort of expression, and in the hours he has spent alone here, he’s practiced and tried and only found discomfort.

Alone with stitches in his face, body with a bone deep hurt, his feet tapped out the rhythm for an old song he used to dance to, wondering what his chances of sneaking out before someone comes to check on him. This is how Agent Carter found him when she walked into the medical tent.

Barnes stopped her. “I know what you’re going to say.” He did know, he realized. There’s something wrong with this, different from déjà vu.

“That was foolish, what you did,” she snapped at him, not caring then and not caring now. Her arms were crossed, lips red as she widened her stance. Barnes hadn’t seen a lot of women in pants at this point unless they were trying to assert the authority most men wouldn’t acknowledge if the dame was in a skirt. But here Carter was: face perfect and pants dirty, telling of work.

“Just following orders,” he tried to dodge, forcing a smile that was too sharp. It hurt. Barnes stood up. “The Captain gives them, I take ‘em. Like a good soldier.”

“You stupid—” Carter gritted her teeth, turning away. He’d never seen her so emotional, so angry. He always knew it was there, burning quietly but never so exposed. When she faced him, the intensity was under control—reduced to borderline throttling irritation.

“I don’t have time for your games.” She lifted her chin, arms still folded over her chest.

Barnes raised an eyebrow. “I’m not playing any games with you unless you want me to, sweetheart.”

She looked exasperated with the pet name. “You act like you don’t see it.”

Stepping over to the medical tray, Barnes shuffled the contents around like he was looking for something. Anything to appear busy. Needles and scissors, thread and syringes.

“Don’t see what?” he asked slowly.

“That he loves you back.”

The edges of memory start to melt, like ink on paper left out in the rain. The memory was washed out, but Barnes remembered the bitter taste in his mouth, like bile caught in his throat. He felt sick.

_It isn’t an act,_ he wanted to tell her. His instinct is to lie, say he doesn’t love another man, that he isn’t a queer. That this is what he’d been avoiding his whole life because otherwise, he’d have to do something about it when Rogers rejected him. And even in the off chance that Rogers felt the same, Barnes couldn’t trust himself not to fuck it all up like every other relationship he’d ever had. Rogers might have been against running, but Barnes never was. Frozen in place, Barnes was forced into watching Carter leave, wondering numbly who else knew, who else had seen it. If he was as cruel as Peggy Carter made him out to be.

 

* * *

 

He doesn’t know what year it is— it’s hard to tell with the frequency of Rogers getting into fights. But one day, Rogers inevitably gets his jaw busted for the first time. This moment shouldn’t be remarkable to Barnes: Rogers has tried to stop pickpockets before with mixed success. This time he had run after the two men, who regrouped and met up with some friends in a side street a couple blocks down. Even winded, it wasn’t enough to slow Rogers down. _No_ , Barnes reflected, they would never be so lucky.

It was a hot summer day, their skin sticky and not wanting to be touched. Each lay on their own respective bed in the shared room as Barnes flexed his right hand, knuckles sore and raw. The top blanket was coarse, the fabric itchy and irritating. The grit from the sidewalk on his scrapes and cuts in combination with the sweat from the summer day made him want to take a bath for the second time that day. His knuckles started to sting, the skin tight around his knuckles as he continued to make a fist, but he was too exhausted to care enough to get up and wash up. Too busy looking across the room at Rogers, wondering what he was feeling. Wondering how sore he was, how deep the cuts on his hands ran, how many bruises he was hiding where Barnes couldn’t see.

They'd stripped down to their undershorts, Rogers pulling the blanket over himself modestly. Barnes knew he was trying to hide the bruises. A dark blue circle was already creeping out from his cheekbone. God, the poor guy’s face was completely devastated on the left side. If Sarah Rogers were still here, rest her soul, she’d be able to fix him up, but Barnes knew nothing about setting bones—only how to break them. Rogers said his jaw didn’t hurt that much, but the guy wasn’t eating which meant tomorrow Barnes would take him to a clinic somewhere, dragging him all the way and hearing the complaints about how Barnes dipped into their savings for the doctor visit Rogers didn’t need.

Neither of them would be able to work tomorrow looking rough like they did. Barnes sighed, the two of them laying there, frustration rippling off Barnes in waves, not knowing what to say. The heat was heavy and pressed down on his chest, trying to get under his skin. The radio droned on in the background. He wanted to concentrate on that, not Rogers. Rogers who hated being fussed over (still does). The announcer’s voice was too far away, and something wouldn't let him ignore his friend’s erratic breathing. It doesn’t sound like one of Rogers' asthma attacks, which Barnes could hoot and holler about later. They were holding out on next pay day to get Rogers more asthma cigarettes. An asthma attack was the last thing they needed right now.

Rogers swallowed audibly before asking Barnes if he thought he did the right thing.

“Yeah, of course you did,” Barnes scoffed, trying to hide his surprise. Rogers had never shown hesitation before, had never asked for Barnes' opinion on his hard-fast principles. “You’re _you_ , Rogers. If it wasn’t right, you wouldn’t be doing it.”

“All I did was get someone’s left hook.” Barnes glanced over, and sure enough, the bruise was undeniable on Rogers' pale cheek. Thank God above they weren’t living with the Barnes clan anymore—Mrs. Barnes would be chewing them out so loud that the downstairs neighbors would start thumping the ceiling back in retaliation, which always just made Winifred madder.

Rogers sighed. “You’re always getting into fights because of me.”

Staring at the ceiling, Rogers' face scrunched up in deep concentration, like he was reading the sheep rock above him. Barnes was washed with the desire that Rogers would look at him. That he could tell Rogers—

_Oh_ , Barnes realized. He knew what year this memory was from: 1938. Barnes was twenty years old when he knew in a split second he was gone for Steve Rogers.

“There’s nothing I’d rather do.” Barnes rolled to his side, cheek resting against the scratching blanket. His face was honest and eager, willing Rogers to look his way so Barnes could convince him never to second guess himself again. He wanted Rogers to look at him, even though it felt like Barnes wasn’t supposed to be seeing this, not ever. Rogers never cried in front of him—Barnes was the crier. Not even at Sarah’s funeral. And he’d never imagined Rogers doubted himself, not the way everyone else did. Throat tight, Barnes managed a, “you're a goddamn hero, Steve Rogers”, and it should sound cheesy like a line. But Rogers did not look at him.

Rogers said nothing for the longest time, so long that Barnes wondered if Rogers even heard him in the first place. Finally, there’s a small, broken “thank you” as Rogers turned on his side, a perfect mirror of Barnes' position.

_Now_ , he thought, now would have been the moment to tell him.

He still wanted to do what he wanted then: slide out of bed only to crawl over Rogers, distract him eskimo kisses as Rogers pushed him away half-heartedly. Barnes knew then what he knew now: Rogers was pitying himself and his thin body, not loving himself. But Barnes loved him first when he was like this. Barnes would always love him like this. He wanted to nuzzle his temple, his lips lingering on Rogers' forehead in a way that only lovers could do. They could be lovers. And if Rogers' groan was ripped from his throat like a sob, Barnes would just have to kiss him everywhere. Frantic as he chased something away.

In his bed, Barnes continued to lie, clenching his fists instead.

 

* * *

 

From there it was like losing teeth, it was growth spurts. It was Rogers with skinned knees, burying the neighborhood stray. Snot-nosed, 8-year-old Steve Rogers who dug the grave for that damn cat. Barnes tried to help—the shovel was too tall, Rogers' thin arms slipping and sliding, unable to get a grip. It took him nearly an hour, Rogers shaking and covered in dirt, hands ridden with blisters, eyes red. But there was a sense of duty Rogers had that no matter how much it hurt, he had to do this himself.

There was no body to be recovered in the Alps in 1945, but Barnes would bet if there had been time, Rogers would have searched for him. And, if they had found Barnes—if Barnes had died in the first place—without a doubt, Rogers would dig the damn grave himself.

“I gotta be there for him, Buck,” Rogers argued in the memory, his young eyes hard. The clumps of dirt were small and pitiful, getting smaller as Rogers no doubt grew more tired.

“I know, Steve,” he said softly, mostly to himself. “I know you do. And you were.”

 

* * *

 

By the time he feels he can breathe again, the sun has already moved across the sky. James tugs his hat down and recalls the last train to Penn Station was… he checks his watch and realizes it never mattered. He wasn’t ready. Instead he grips the edge of the wood bench, anchoring himself to this one place as he finally places this emotion: fear.

Maybe there had been a mistake or wishful thinking. He’d always loved science fiction and let his mind wander. It made sense that his mind might try to pull this one over him—for months he’s been on leave from war, months without work, feeling half formed and useless and lost. Maybe his consciousness was jumping at the chance for answers—as outlandish as they seemed. The truth was, he was tired of living life in a haze—not knowing or loving Philly, enjoying the company of his girlfriend without loving her in a way that felt right. Sitting, waiting for something to spur him to action as twilight took hold of the evening sky, James had to admit he didn’t know if going to Manhattan would solve all his problems or make more. Whatever Bucky Barnes had gotten into was clearly filled with violence and complications. And what if the haze never cleared, if James never felt a twinge of familiarity for Brooklyn? Would it become the stranger, just like everything else? Like Natalia. Like Steve Rogers had. James isn’t sure he could bear it. Besides, there would be other subway lines. He could sit here, in the afterglow of one life before proceeding to the next. He deserves that much, he thinks.

 

* * *

 

At the start of things, it’s an alley on the way home from school. Barnes' mother didn’t know about the shortcut and would have lost her marbles if she knew he was taking his younger sisters with him, but climbing over the crates at the end of the alley was a sure way to shave off walking a couple extra blocks, and as long as Barnes went first and helped lift little Bella over the fence so her dress didn’t get caught, there was no harm to it. He was telling his sisters to hurry along and to stop arguing when he heard a noise at the opening of the alley and saw a group of boys forming a circle and kicking. Whoever or whatever was in the middle of all it didn’t make a sound.

This was easy, falling back in line and joining the fray. It was the easiest thing Barnes had ever done in his life, was always the easiest and simplest choice to make: help Steve Rogers.

It was the first time he’d ever felt a jaw on his knuckles. It was the first step that led him into the direction that promised more fighting, more blood. More pain. He jumped in, as he did decades ago, settling into his body into the familiar motions. He didn’t know anything about fighting then, only what he’d seen in pictures he watched with his dad. Even now, in his small ten-year-old body, Barnes' arms felt loose, swung too wide, and didn’t pack enough of a punch.

They lost, but lost together—the two of them. They were just children, the other boys a year older and with extra numbers on their side. The natural progression of time made it so Barnes couldn’t remember what this first fight was about—not that it mattered. In the end, it never really mattered.

On the ground, breathing in dust, Rogers was the first one to make a noise. He coughed.

“You okay?” Barnes asked. He was pretty sure one of his teeth was knocked loose.

The look on Rogers' face was of distrust, which shocked him then and made him smile in retrospect. Jesus, what a card. Eventually Rogers gave a terse nod, and Barnes tried to pull himself up. He groaned, dusting his pants off. His mom was going to kill him for ruining his nice slacks. Glancing around, he noticed his sisters were nowhere to be seen. They were probably halfway down the street now, yelling for their mama that Barnes got hurt. He groaned, rubbing his jaw.

Rogers was frowning when Barnes looked over, his fat bottom lip bleeding down his chin. Rogers swiped at it with the back of his fist, trying to stand up as well. He swayed a bit, blood now streaked across his jaw, Barnes watching from a safe distance.

“Hey,” Barnes gestured to his own chin, “you got a little, uh—”

“Why’re you here?” Rogers interrupted, not caring in the least.

It was an invitation to talk, so he did. Barnes' mother always told him he was a chatterbox, as he went into detail about heading home, backtracking to mention his sisters all by name. _Becca, Rosie. Bella_ . Details that, as they poured out, slowly caused Rogers to develop a look of extreme confusion and loss. When Barnes finally caught Rogers up to the present, and _now I’m here, standing around with you_ —Rogers' mouth had opened slightly, as if in awe.

“I’m Bucky, by the way,” he added. Rogers hesitated before introducing himself begrudgingly. Barnes didn’t care then that Rogers was wary like an alley cat, he stepped close and shook his limp hand before explaining he better be off—his ma was probably getting ready to tan his hide.

“Buck.”

At the mouth of the alley he turned, not sure of what happened next. He was supposed to go home. Rogers' face was blurring, and he swear he could hear voices. Men’s voices. Above and everywhere around him. They didn’t make sense.

“Bucky,” Rogers tried again. His expression was severe, making him look older than he should. “Don’t give up. You can’t run forever. Just try—”

 

* * *

 

In 1947, they showed him pictures in a newspaper article. A gray distorted blob, the print is worn, but on the table, he was struck with the violence of thinking, “ _he’s gone_ ”—the man on the Valkyrie was lost in the ocean. He didn’t doubt it for a moment.

He was always going to get himself killed, the man thought venomously as he lay strapped to a table. Somewhere deep down he knew this—there was something he used to be a part of and the moment he was ripped away, the other half would die. Do something stupid. Reckless. The face on the print was indistinct, as if the man were faceless. He was important. His name was—

 

* * *

 

There was a sound of metal screeching, scraping in the alley. Somewhere, a train was coming to a halt. It stopped in front of him where there weren’t tracks before and he knew it was time to go. It was a disappointing realization when he turned and the boy wasn’t there anymore to see him off, but it was okay. He was going to wake up. He didn’t see, but he heard a voice speaking to him, lips brushing against his cheek. “This isn’t what we wanted,” it said, “but the future could still be ours”.

Girls saluted him with handkerchiefs. Men whistled and cheered, even though he was just a child. He goes to war.

 

* * *

 

Evening in the park brings about the occasional jogger and their dog. One after another they pass by James until a shadow is cast over him. It’s impossible not to catch his eye. He’s standing in the sun’s direction—Steve Rogers. It’s like a switch is hit—he senses it’s Rogers long before turning and tilting his head back to look up at him. He looks tired, his face shadowed by a baseball cap. Even still, James realizes the photos don’t do the man justice—he’s stunning and James can’t help but gape at him a bit. He’s wearing a light jacket that’s tight enough to reveal his ridiculous chest to waist ratio with denim jeans that hug his legs from top to bottom. Rogers clears his throat, as if reading the other man’s thoughts.

“You look lost,” Rogers tells him. His face is hard, like he’s not wanting to give anything away, but his voice is gentle and his concern seems real enough.

“If that isn’t the understatement of the century,” James chuckles, looking away. The humor falls from his face when Rogers can no longer see it. He can’t recall why this would matter—Rogers not seeing. “Think you could help me out?”

When Rogers sits down at the opposite end of the bench, it’s sinks noticeably. Briefly James fears it’ll give and break, but eventually it settles and holds both their weights as Rogers' eyes remain focused on what’s in front of him. Trees, pedestrians, and then that gaze is locked onto James, whose chest tightens at the intensity of his gaze. Determined and unsure, tired and lonely. It’s all too familiar. James wonders what else is out there, what else Rogers is looking for.

His companion is quiet for a beat. “We should get you somewhere safe.”

“Like Philly?” James asks. He can’t help but notice the slight cringe in Rogers' face—mostly around his eyes. The firm, unnatural smile.

“You don’t have to go back there,” Rogers says. “We just thought—I figured—”

“I don’t remember you,” James admits. When Rogers doesn’t say anything right away, he thinks he’s found the end of a conversation. Instead, it dawns on James that this isn’t the full truth. “But I feel like I know you.”

Rogers' mouth pops open—the surprised reaction endearing to James before he starts talking. “I know what they did to you,” Rogers says, each word carefully stated. He’s thought about it. “I don’t know how to… reverse it.” _Fix it_ , James hears in the spaces between them. Rogers closes his eyes, James fascinated by the way his lashes sit on his high cheekbones. “I didn’t want to make decisions for you. It wasn’t right.”

James nods solemnly. Rogers looks unhappy and small, concentrating on his hands slotted between his knees. James nudges him with his shoulder. “S’not like you had a choice, right?”

Rogers does not brighten at the words like James had hoped. “You’re the only one who didn’t have a choice. We weren’t sure how to fix it—when we found you in the vault we were too late. Tony or Bruce still don’t understand how Hydra erased precise associations. I know what happened to you… happened because of me. Seeing me triggered… something, and until then I just thought… you should have a chance at something normal.” He leans back. “I thought you would want something normal.”

James has more questions than answers at this point, but files them away for later. Later, because he’s going to make sure there’s a later. It’s like Rogers can’t see it, James reflects. James can—he went to the Smithsonian, saw the exhibit. Even if he’s an outsider to his own life, James knows that the fragments he saw of Bucky Barnes would never want a normal life if it meant leaving Steve Rogers behind.

“‘ _Normal’_ ?” James snorts. “ _Really_? Have you seen our house? Does that look normal to you?” James turns to him. “Also, have you met Nat? Do you know she likes cookie dough on top of her mint chocolate chip ice cream? Buddy, that isn’t ‘normal’.”

Bashfully, Rogers smiles. It’s a good look on him. “Yes, Nat and I are friends, no, I didn’t know. And I haven’t seen the place.”

“It’s huge and ridiculous,” James spreads his hands, mimicking the enormity of it. “I knew something was too good to be true—no way the two of us could afford such a thing without a rich uncle or something.” He catches Rogers smiling distractedly at this. James stops, resting his hands calmly in his own lap. “I’m surprised she didn’t show you, being your friend and all.”

Rogers' face drops at the comment and James knows Rogers had wanted to but didn’t allow himself this. “She’s your friend too.”

“Last I checked, she was a little more than that,” James quips. The act is over, but he still isn’t surprised. Natalia never loved him, not like she said. He wonders why she agreed to this when he wonders if she wanted to try this: something normal. He should feel betrayed and toyed with—maybe later when he processes things and he’ll be bitter, but it’s hard to be angry in the moment.

Suddenly, it strikes him. “So, you two…?”

“No, Nat and I aren’t like that,” Rogers answers quietly, the tips of his ears a little red. James moves closer.

“That’s not what I’m asking,” he lies.

When James leans in, Rogers doesn’t move away. He lets himself be kissed, still as a statue as if afraid to shatter the moment with one wrong move. Kissing Rogers doesn’t help James remember like he hoped, it isn’t the epiphany he was looking for. Nothing rushes back to James as he pulls Rogers closer, hand at the back of his neck. The man is stiff as a board, arms at his sides, but when James opens his mouth to deepen the kiss, Rogers clumsily follows suit. There’s no mistake: Rogers wanted this, still wants this.

After, James presses his forehead to Rogers', listening to him breathe. His eyes are closed, lips red.

“Can I ask you a question?”

“Anything,” Rogers exhales.

“Why did I keep dodging this? Dodging you?”

Rogers leans back, away from Barnes. “I don’t know. Scared, maybe? I thought it was obvious that I—” he stops. “Your answer’s good as mine.” He laughs. “Who knows?”

“If you stick around,” James offers, “maybe I’ll be able to tell you.”

Now Rogers' face brightens. James hadn’t been as aware as he thought he was—hadn’t seen all the tension in Rogers' face until he released it and smiled. The smile itself was crooked and James wants to kiss him, so handsome when he’s happy, but doesn’t want to miss a moment of Rogers just like this. Sitting on a bench in the oncoming dark, looking like a man who’d won the lottery.

“Okay,” Rogers answers, simply. “I’d really like that.”

 

* * *

 

On the walk out of the park, Rogers’ phone supplying directions to closest subway station, James shoves his hands into his pockets. Their conversation had become stunted after James asked Rogers— _Steve_ , he was trying to correct himself—to go with him to New York.

“I’m sorry I forgot you,” James says, feeling foolish. He picks at the inside of his pockets, unsure if that was something Steve would want to hear, if it changed anything. Probably not.

Steve looks at him before shifting his gaze towards his phone. “That’s nothing you should apologize for.” He glances back at James. “And don’t—don’t worry about me. I’m… you’re the one it happened to. And it shouldn’t’ve.”

James gives a crooked grin and sighs. “Jeez, who knew Captain America was emotionally constipated.”

The accusation has Steve stopping, face flushed. “What?”

“Kids these days would be shocked if their textbooks mentioned their hero has a martyr complex,” James teases, moving ahead.

Steve is practically sputtering as he catches up to James. “That’s not—I do not,” he insists. _It’s cute_ , James thinks. When Steve moves in front of him, James can’t help but tug him down an inch or so. Their lips meet.

It’s sweeter this time, Steve given more of a warning of what to expect. Chaste and warm. He can’t remember ever feeling this way when kissing someone—giddy and light when Steve cups his face, thumb brushing over his cheek. To any stranger on the street they would look like two nobodies, and James wonders if Steve would ever want that.

_You’re getting ahead of yourself, Barnes._

Steve breaks the kiss, eyes glassy. “B—James,” he stumbles. “James, we should wait. I don’t want to—”

“You’re not taking advantage of me,” James interjects testily. He’s a goddamn adult who can make his own decisions. “You’re a beautiful man and I want to kiss you if you want to kiss me.”

The response seems to surprise Steve, who now looks shy. If he puts himself in Steve’s shoes, he can somewhat understand where he’s coming from. Hell, James would do the same thing in his position. James thumbs at Steve’s plush bottom lip, pinching it before letting him go.

“God, and you are beautiful. Anyone ever tell you that?”

Steve’s laugh is nervous, comically so. “No, people aren’t usually in the habit of telling men they’re beautiful.”

James shakes his head. “What a goddamn shame.” When he takes the phone out of Steve’s hand to see where they’re going, Steve doesn’t say anything when James sneaks his hand into the now unoccupied space. It’s only a block later James thinks to ask him.

“You mind it?”

Steve snaps back to attention. “What?”  

“Being called beautiful. I’m not trying to—y’know. Feminize you or whatever. Not that it’s a bad thing. Women are great,” he rambles. “And anyone can do whatever they want. Y’know. Under certain circumstances—”

“Not if it’s you,” Steve stops him. His mouth is all screwed up like he’s trying not to laugh. “Yeah, it’s fine if it’s you.”

 

* * *

 

In the end, he gets on the subway. He doesn’t have much to carry on, nothing but the clothes on his back and a friend.

It’s late, late enough that they’ll have to take the bus from Union Station to New York and won’t be in Brooklyn until early in the morning, but neither complain. They sit in the station for hours, having just missed the last bus, and in that time, he tries to remember. He tries to picture a battlefield, a piss-poor apartment, but something is missing. He is looking for something that isn’t there, and a voice whispers, “this isn’t what we wanted, but it could be ours.”

Steve, in the seat across, smiles and doesn’t stop.

**Author's Note:**

> Title is taken from a JFK quote: " _And those who look only to the past or present are certain to miss the future_."
> 
> That being said, thanks for reading!


End file.
